


No Dadaist Poetry Beyond This Point

by acatalepsy



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Angst, Canon compliant up to Episode 31: Securite, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It hurt me to write this, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 18:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6340759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acatalepsy/pseuds/acatalepsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after the crew of the Hephaestus are reunited upon the U.S.S. Urania, Eiffel has a panic attack and realises that he can no longer keep pretending that nothing has changed, post Horrible-Unending-Nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Dadaist Poetry Beyond This Point

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. Eiffel doesn't deserve this.
> 
> Still, he has suffered so much and is so resilient so ... I guess I wanted to explore some emotional fall-out?
> 
> At least I'm not as evil as Gabriel, okay. This is how I'm consolidating the amount of pain I'm unleashing in writing this.
> 
> (The music that I listened to while writing was 'Deep End' by Ruelle - as well as 'Then Suddenly, Everything Changed' by Alaskan Tapes and 'Lantern' by The White Birch.)
> 
> UPDATE 09/07/16: Changed all the times I accidentally referred to the U.S.S. Urania as the Hermes. No one told me!! HOW COULD DARE YOU GUYS?!

Perhaps it was naive, but at first Eiffel genuinely believed he could just continue where things left off.

His life on the Hephaestus had been left temporarily on hold and now that he was finally, _finally_ back with his crew things could continue like how they were before. He'd been holding onto the idea for so long he couldn’t seem to let go of it. And some part of him, however foolish, really was convinced. The rest simply pretended everything was okay - an act he found himself to be quite skilled at. It had always come naturally to him to counter any hardship in his life with an equally ridiculous response.

However, this task, even for a communications officer as skilled as Eiffel, was becoming increasingly difficult, his sardonic, self-deprecating wit and gratuitous pop-culture references feeling a bit empty now, even to himself.

Recently it just felt like his mind was in another place. A place where he was still afraid - but not of the act of dying itself, just … the loneliness of it. It was true that he’d spent a majority of his time on the Hephaestus craving connection with somebody, anybody, who actually understood him, but it was only once the crew were gone and he was left truly alone, hurtling off into deep-space, that he remembered what that kind of isolation truly felt like.

 _It didn't matter, though,_ he would chastise himself. It didn’t matter because he was _back_ , goddamnit. And there were disasters that needed to be avoided, and a great, possibly alien-inhabited, once-red-now-blue star that needed to be communicated with - or more accurately a group of sociopaths that needed placating. 

If those creeps thought that he was, even for a minute, going to help them they were delusional. From the moment they said they wanted him to reestablish contact with the star he knew he was going to have to stall for time. There was no way in hell he was going to assist them in their 'mission', fulfilling whatever horrific motive was behind it.

What stood out to him the most about the crew of the Urania, after the months he had spent on the ship with them, was that they were just a bit too clean-cut for comfort. There was something artificial about them, polished around the edges, as if they had just walked off of the set of a 1950's infomercial. Their smiles were too tight, their voices too regulated - and in all honesty they gave Eiffel the heebie-jeebies.

It was obvious that these people were Cutter's 'big guns'. There was something familiar about the way they acted - as if they could smile as they watched you lay dying, and then be ever so slightly annoyed when they discovered a fleck of blood caught on their perfectly tailored and pressed uniforms.

Not only that but he could feel them watching him at all times, even when he was alone. It was enough to make anyone feel paranoid. From the moment he was reunited with the Hephaestus crew he desperately wanted a moment to regroup, to ask what the hell was going on, but they simply weren't being given an opportunity. And even if they could, they had no idea just how much Maxwell had manipulated Hera. They weren’t even sure if they were safe talking on their own ship anymore, or whether they were being monitored there as well.

Hera. Stripped of her free will _again_. Anger churned away, dull and hot, in the pit of Eiffel’s stomach as the crew of the Hephaestus, sans AI, followed Kepler deeper into the ship as he gave them the ‘grand tour’.

"Eiffel, this will be you’re primarily stationed," Kepler’s clipped footfalls echoed as he strode down the corridor towards the communications room. Swiping his key card, he gave a false smile as the door slid open with a faint _whoosh_ and he backed into the room, gesturing around himself grandly as if presenting a show. "The interface might take some getting used to, but the the controls shouldn't be all that different from the ones you manned back on your ship."

The room was high-ceilinged and vast, enormous glass walls providing a view into deep space, blinking dials and monitors curving around beneath them, a gleaming metal arc. It was much more imposing and showy than the comfortable set-up Eiffel was used to, and there seemed to be more buttons than one could ever need. As Kepler strolled over to the main controls, a spring in his step, the communications officer followed suit, a good few paces behind, along with the rest of the Hephaestus crew. As they entered a rush of icy air swept over them, ruffling Eiffel’s jacket. He shivered involuntarily.

“Come, sit,” Kepler beckoned him over, directing him towards the computers. "Lieutenant Minkowski, Professor Hilbert, learning these controls will most likely be beneficial to you so I advise that you familiarize yourselves with them as well."

As Eiffel plonked himself down in the too-comfortable office chair in the centre of the room, a slight frown passed over Minkowski's face that quickly vanished as she stepped forward to look over Eiffel's shoulder. Lovelace simply blinked, expressionless. Over the past few days the crew of the Urania had been doing this, speaking as if Lovelace wasn't even in the room. Eiffel wasn't sure why. But there were many things he couldn’t explain about these people - none of them good.

He rested his hands on the desk in front of him and as his wrists came in contact with the frigid metal of the communications panel he shivered again, gritting his teeth. When was the last time he’d been this cold?

The first time the heating system failed on the Hephaestus Eiffel was half-convinced that he was going to contract hypothermia. One of the things he hadn’t anticipated when he first became an astronaut was the peculiar side-effects that came with having every aspect of your environment man-made and regulated. All of the rooms were always a fixed temperature; all of your oxygen the exact same processed, toxin-free blend. You became used to things always being the same way, small changes in the environment somehow amplified.

His heart stuttered in his chest for a moment and he coughed, trying to rid himself of the odd, congested feeling that had settled there.

Then he realised that the crew’s eyes were all on him - Minkowski concerned, Hilbert quizzical, Lovelace, as usual, unreadable - and for a good few seconds couldn’t figure out why - until it hit him. It’d been a while since he’d worried about Decima. In fact, he’d almost completely forgotten about it - what, with the whole U.S.S. Horrible-Unending-Nightmare ordeal. The crew were on the look-out for signs. He’d been presumed dead for over two years in the crew’s eyes and yet they were worried about _Decima_ , even though they were trapped on a spaceship with a bunch of psychopaths. And not just any psychopaths - these were like, _premium_ psychopaths. Cutter wouldn’t employ just any garden-variety aspiring H. H. Holmes’s. These were the real deal.

For some reason the crew’s concern made Eiffel want to laugh, but thankfully he managed to reign it in, not before wondering if that was a normal response to mortal peril, however. He breathed into his hands, trying to warm them up.

“Are you alright, Eiffel?” Minkowski quirked an eyebrow.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Just cold.”

“Ah. Sorry about that,” Kepler chimed in, gesturing at the monitors. “We have a lot of high-processing-power equipment in here so we like to keep the temperatures down, just so that we don’t run the risk of accidentally overheating anything.”

The commander’s gaze flickered over Eiffel, looking him up and down. He knew he wasn’t looking that great - still, it could have been worse. He’d only been discharged from the Urania's medical bay a couple of weeks prior and he knew he looked skinnier than usual, and could practically feel the dark circles under his eyes. But, he was stubborn. The worst was over.

“Do you want to get a warmer jacket or … ?”

Eiffel rolled his eyes and shot Minkowski an easy smile, leaning back in his chair, “Don’t worry, _mum_. A little cold can’t hurt me.”

The commander raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look convinced. She had a hand on her hip and her lips were pursed as if she wanted to say something but had decided against it.

“Besides,” Eiffel continued with a light chuckle. “I’m practically our resident version of Captain America now. _Let me tell you,_ cryogenic freezing is _way_ cooler in the movies than it is in real life. No pun intended.”

Silence.

Awkward, unyielding.

Then, finally a voice broke into the tension.

“You … froze yourself?” Lovelace’s arms were folded, her expression skeptical.

“Uh, yeah. About five-million times.” Eiffel shivered again, hunching in on himself. “It was _terrible_ . Seriously, I do _not_ recommend it.”

He said it like a joke, but when his gaze travelled back back up to meet the eyes of the crew Minkowski looked devastated and Hilbert had this strange, almost-fascinated glint in his eyes.

Eiffel faltered. It was meant to be funny, he thought. Maybe? He was smiling when he said it.

 _Five million times_ … How many was it really, though? Fifty? A hundred? Five hundred? He tried to do the math in his head, but all the days seemed to blur into each other like the recollection of a fever-dream. Fleeting images, sounds, memories, thoughts.

He could recall the first mayday transmissions he sent out. Minkowski was there, and Hera, Hilbert, Lovelace. They were with him. Half-there with him. Like ghosts. After-images. The imprints left behind your eyes in the wake of a camera flash.

And the _cold_ . At first bitter, burning, and then - numbness. He’d been cold for so long that he’d forgotten what he was even doing freezing himself in the first place. The reasons were all gone. The only thought left in his mind that he had to _keep going._ Everything hurt. He didn’t know why but he had to keep -

The warmth of Minkowski’s hand on his upper arm jolted him back into reality. His heart was beating so hard in his chest that he could feel it reverberating throughout his entire body, slamming against his rib-cage.

“Eiffel. _Are you alright?”_

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? Everything was back as it should be. Everything was fine. He was _fine_.

“I …” He croaked.

And then he remembered to take a breath.

Except he couldn’t.

There was something wrong. He was drowning, inhaling knock-out gas, choking on Decima-tainted blood, struggling to breathe after being frozen and reanimated over and over again. All alone, in deep-space, inadvertently killing himself because there were simply no other options left.

He coughed, spluttered, doubling over.

 _What was_ wrong _with him? His blood? His lungs?_ His thoughts raced as he tried to take a mental catalogue. _Was it Decima? Or … had he really screwed up his heart because of the repeated stress of being pulled out of cryogenic stasis? Was he_ still _in stasis?_ Was this even real?

Minkowski was shouting something across the room, crouched down in front of Eiffel now, both hands on his shoulders, solid, warm. At first he could barely make out her words. They sounded distant, muted, as if underwater.

“-said it was incubating!”

“And it _is_ incubating,” Hilbert hissed. “Decima is _under_ _control!_ ”

Minkowski scowled. “I have no idea what you define as ‘under control’ but this sure as hell doesn’t look-”

“Not a result of _Decima_ .” The scientist bit out. _“Post-traumatic stress response.”_

Eiffel squeezed his eyes shut, throat and chest aching. He couldn't stop shivering. It was like all of his body’s functions had simultaneously decided to rebel against him.

“Oh dear,” Kepler spoke with a lilt as he watched, somewhat bemused, unmoving from his spot across the room.

“Eiffel. Eiffel, look at me.” Minkowski said, tone authoritative, automatically slipping into her ‘commander’ voice. “You’re alright, okay? You’re on the Urania. We’re here with you. You are safe and so are Hera, Lovelace, myself, and even _Hilbert_.”

Eiffel tried to blink away dizziness. Was this a hallucination? How would he even be able to tell if this was even real or not? How could he trust his own judgment? A high-pitched ringing was slowly beginning to build in his ears. He felt like he was going to throw up.

Minkowski continued to rattle off a litany of reassurances, grounding statements - but they all melded into white noise until an exasperated sigh from Hilbert, that was really more like a growl, cut into the disarray. He stalked across the room to join her, muttering something inaudible in Russian.

“ _Officer Eiffel._ I am going to need you to take some deep breaths for me, okay? This will neutralise the stress response triggered by your sympathetic nervous system.”

The whole problem was that he _couldn’t_ breathe. Did it look like he wasn’t trying?

“It is very simple,” Hilbert continued, voice level. “I am sure even an imbecile such as yourself will be able to get the hang of it. Breathe in through your nose for four counts, then hold for an interval of seven -”

The scientist tried to take Eiffel’s hand to press it against his chest, but he jerked away abruptly, slamming into the chair behind him.

_Deep breaths, Eiffel …_

Where had he heard that before? Oh yeah! That time he was _kidnapped_ and forced to be a _guinea pig_ for a potentially lethal science experiment against his free will. _Because that had turned out so brilliantly._

Darkness was beginning to creep up around the corners of his vision. He couldn’t trust Hilbert. Hell, he couldn’t even trust what he was seeing. He _most certainly_ couldn’t trust a _hallucination_ of Hilbert.

Lightheadedness caused him to list to the side but someone was keeping him upright.

“It’s alright, Eiffel. I’m here. You’re okay.” Minkowski’s voice again. “Everything’s okay. Just copy me.”

It was an imperative - not a question. She placed his hand gently against her ribs and took an exaggerated breath in.

And Eiffel copied. Not very successfully albeit, but he continued as she held for seven seconds. The heat of her next to him was comforting, real.

“Exhale for eight,” Hilbert supplied.

It was a long process, but eventually Eiffel’s heartbeat begin to slow, his breaths beginning to even out and become deeper, no longer shallow and strangled.

Soon his surroundings slowly began to filter back in, the hum of the electrical equipment, the quiet hiss of air conditioning, the bright, artificial light. No one was speaking, a solemnity hanging in the air so heavy it was almost palpable.

He wasn’t on the Hephaestus, or the U.S.S. Horrible-Unending-Nightmare. He was on the Urania. He wasn’t dreaming.

As Minkowski helped him to his feet, he leaned heavily against her, dully realising that he couldn't feel his hands, staticky numbness creeping up and around his wrists. He flexed his fingers and groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

He was so tired.

It wasn’t an option to be tired before. Admitting it to himself would be suicide. After months of denial it was like everything had suddenly caught up with him all at once.

It wasn’t just tiredness he was feeling, though, it was grief, a feeling of loss he tried his best to ignore, but now it seemed everyone was affected by as well. He could see in Minkowski’s eyes, and Lovelace’s, and still Hilbert’s as they watched him warily. He wouldn’t even be able to face Hera. It was the realization that he could no longer pretend that everything was okay anymore, as he always had - that this wasn’t a game, and that despite his efforts to pretend it was one with his facetious remarks and easy-going humor, he just didn't have the energy to be that person any more.

There was something about his former self that was broken. Or mending. Or perhaps just _gone_.

All he wanted now was to sleep. But even then, he was terrified he would never wake up, or he would wake up and something terrible would have happened, or that his friends would be gone and he would be left alone again.

He was constantly restless, on edge, and if not that then just empty.

Minkowski lead him through the halls, back the way they came in silence, their breath and the hum of the ship the only sound accompanying them. As the rest of Eiffel’s senses came back online he found himself shaken, exhausted. Minkowski was warm against him, a strong arm hooked around his waist holding him upright.

Only when they reached the docking area did she speak once more.

“Do you want to go back to the Hephaestus or would you feel more comfortable at the sleeping quarters here?”

And when Eiffel chose to stay aboard the Urania, Minkowski didn’t look surprised, she just looked sad.

He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for. Eiffel, you’ve-”

“I _am_ sorry, though,” he cut in. “I’m sorry I’m not who I used to be. That I’m like this. Maybe if I were smarter things would’ve turned out differently.”

He’d replayed it over so many times in his mind.

“You’re not- There was nothing you could’ve done. You did everything you could.”

Eiffel chuckled, self-deprecating. “Usually I can make it out of the situations I get myself into but … For once? I really don’t know how to fix this.”

The words rang in the air as Minkowski set her jaw, pushing open the door to Eiffel’s dorm. The room was barren all except for a small bed, and what looked to be a Discman sitting on the bedside table next to a half-empty bottle of sleeping pills.

The comms officer immediately crossed the room to collapse onto his bed, running a hand over his face.

“We’ve all got our baggage,” Minkowski said eventually, gently sitting down next to him. “You don’t need to _fix_ anything. Just having you back is more than enough. It’s okay to need help.”

But how was he supposed to get help from other people when he was the one who was supposed to keep everything together?

“I can’t help but feel like if I can’t maintain some sort of normalcy that we used to have on the Hephaestus that we’re just going to fall apart and I can’t- I don’t want to be-” Eiffel groaned.

Minkowski nodded slowly, with quiet understanding and Eiffel hummed, his eyes slipping closed.

Eventually, he spoke once more. “Where do we go from here, Renee?”

He already knew she didn’t have the answer, though. Because he had no idea either.

There was no going back.

Things were different now.

Perhaps not doomed, just … different.


End file.
